


Black Friday

by bewildered



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Shameless Smut, Smut, Thanksgiving, The Author Regrets Nothing, Whipped Cream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 04:20:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16716496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewildered/pseuds/bewildered
Summary: Let’s heat those leftovers up a bit, shall we?Sequel to “Served Cold.” Basically just smut and silliness and more smut.





	1. The Black of Night

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is completely self-indulgent, just a smutty release valve for all the UST I’ve been writing and all the crappy life I’ve been living lately. I can’t say there’s no nutritional content, but it’s kind of like calling pumpkin pie a vegetable, or pretending Häagen-Dazs is a meaningful dairy serving. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Thanks to the_moonmoth & Sigyn for betaing at various points, as well as fraggleshrew, trilliumjente, zabjade, and everyone else on Chatzy who read bits and offered words of support.
> 
> HUGE thanks to pfeifferpack for the banner!

 

Spike glared at the door that Buffy had just disappeared through, brows knit, in the blackest of black moods. Black as night, black as pitch, black as his soul would be if he had one -- which he most assuredly didn’t, so he supposed it wasn’t actually a very good simile, but in any case the point was, he was bloody well pissed off.

It wasn’t enough that he’d had to throw himself on the mercy of the slayer and her band of goody-two-shoes...es, get shot full of holes, and nearly eaten by a bear, oh no! No, the bloody slayer had to actually _agree_ when he’d suggested they shag, bloody confusing bint, and then fuck him into the bloody ground like bloody Boadicea, and then, then! She had the gall to actually _walk away_ when he was already primed for another go, and when the devil was she going to get her sweet arse back here so he could fuck her again? She’d been gone at least two minutes now.

He hated her. Everything about her, from her too-perfect golden hair down to the chunky-heeled boots she liked to plant in his chest. The way she rolled her eyes, her smart-ass mouth, the curve of her stomach, the taste of her sweat, that hitch she got in her breath when she was close to coming, the heat of her, god! She’d been so hot and wet, hatefully perfect, and the scent of her, and the flavour, she tasted of power and the elements and something else, something uniquely _Buffy_ , and the way her thighs had quivered under his fingers when she exploded against his tongue….

 _God,_ he hated her.

When was she coming back?

He was about to stand up and start pacing the limits of his chain, just to have something to do, when the door at the top of the stairs suddenly swung open and… there she was, still naked, her hair lit from behind by the kitchen lights, like the halo of a saint in a Renaissance painting, except instead of holding symbolic greenery or regalia, in one hand she held a Tupperware of warmed-up blood -- actually warm, from the looks of things -- and in the other, she held a can of whipped cream.

The look on her face was anything but saintly.

He stretched slowly as she descended the stairs, watching her through his eyelashes. Her skin was still glistening and dewy, her nipples tight and hard, her cheeks flushed; he could hear her heart racing and her quickened breath, and for a moment he felt sick, because it was all so _human_ , so wrong. So not what he should be desiring. But god, he wanted her despite his better judgment; his cock had been hard as marble the moment she appeared in the doorway, and every step she took was like a drum in his ears, the drums of war; he lazily stroked himself as he watched her, until she was standing right beside him.

“I brought you more blood,” she said softly.

“Right.”

And she handed him the Tupperware of blood and sat down beside him, on the bit of thin cot mattress that he wasn’t on, legs tipped demurely to one side.

He glared at her sidelong, taking a huge swig of the blood -- tasted a shade better not through a straw, but still bland and not as good as the real thing. As he watched, she upended the canister of whipped cream and squirted a glob into her mouth, humming with approval, which was such a letdown after the anticipation of her grand entrance that he growled.

“Something wrong with your din-din?” Buffy asked sweetly. “Not warm enough?”

It was actually the perfect temperature, which only pissed him off more. “Something wrong with your heart?” he sniped. “Not cold enough?”

“God, you’re annoying,” Buffy muttered, taking another mouthful of whipped cream. She arched her back, stretching.

Spike took another sullen drink, eyes riveted on her tits. God, they were glorious, pink and perky. He wondered how dead she would make him if he just reached out and-- _Bugger it._ He did it, his free hand cupping that sweet curve, thumb roughly brushing her hard nipple.

She leaned into his touch -- still unbelievable, that she was allowing any of this -- tilting her head back for more whipped cream, and Spike could take a bloody hint; he set his blood aside, sitting up to fondle her other breast too, dragging the chain still attached to his wrist across his thighs, setting his mouth to the exposed curve of her throat. He heard the hiss of the whipped cream as she squirted more into her mouth; her throat fluttered under his lips as she swallowed, and he groaned, running blunt teeth along her skin.

He could kill her right now, he realized. Her throat was bared to him, and whatever was going on in his noggin, he didn’t think it could stop him if he vamped out right into her jugular, beating fast and strong under his tongue. It would hurt, most likely, but the slayer, the bane of his existence, would still be dead. He could do it.

Instead he kissed her butterfly pulse, feeling her gasp and shudder. He could kill her later. Right now, he had more important things to do.

He was trailing kisses along her collarbone, hands still reveling in the weight of her delicious breasts, when she set her hands to his shoulders and pushed him away.

“Your dinner’s getting cold,” she murmured.

“Sod my dinner,” he growled, but she was stronger than him, and also had a hungry light in her eyes that made him shiver, and so he lay back and picked up his cooling blood and watched her warily as she shook her can of Reddi-Whip.

“If you don’t finish your dinner, you can’t have any dessert,” she said, her voice rough, and then she reached out and squirted a tiny dollop of cool whipped cream right in the hollow of his throat. She leaned down and nipped it up, dipping her tongue in to catch up the last foamy bits, then tilted up to kiss his chin before sitting up and shaking her can again.

“You’re a bloody menace,” Spike gasped, but he rushed to take another huge gulp of his blood, because he by god wanted in on this game, and Buffy had laid down the rules plain enough. He had to finish his dinner. While he was quaffing it down, Buffy neatly placed a swirl of cream on each of his nipples, leaning in to the closest and licking it up with her hot tongue. He swore.

She lingered, laughing softly, tongue and teeth sending quivers of sensation radiating out, and then her tongue trailed a long stripe to his other nipple and she lapped the cool whipped cream off and replaced it with the wet heat of her mouth, sucking hard, and he arched into it and swore again, draining his Tupperware and casting it off to the side.

Buffy lifted her eyes to his, a wicked smile teasing at her lips, and he ducked in to kiss her, tenderly at first, brushing his lips across hers, and then harder, kissing her backwards until they were both sitting up.

“Want some?” she murmured against his lips, and he groaned in response, nodding. She leaned back on her elbow, arching her back and squirting sweet cream onto her pink nipple -- she let out a tiny gasp at the contact that made him shake -- and the heat of her started to melt it immediately, and he bent down and took it all into his mouth, cream and nipple together, and he swirled his tongue around as he sucked, savoring the sweetness and the salt of her skin and the breathless song of her pleasure.

He lifted his head and her wide eyes locked with his, her breath hot on his lips as she shook the can and anointed her other breast, and he kept his eyes on hers as he bent to worship, daring her to look away -- but he should have known she wouldn’t, not when it came down to the wire; she watched him in fascination and he made a show of it, flicking his tongue showily across her nipple and lifting his eyebrows as he sucked half her breast into his mouth, grazing her nipple with his teeth, and then she squirted some on her collarbone, a long lash of his tongue, and then her shoulder, tender kisses following the trickle down her bicep, and then the inside of her elbow, a single open-mouthed kiss, and then down the curve of her belly to her navel, a dip of his tongue, and she hesitated, quivering under his lips, and he took her hips in his hands and pulled her up and over, falling back until she was kneeling, thighs splayed wide on either side of his shoulders.

He looked hotly up her body and her hesitation melted into a challenging smile and she took the can and covered her glorious quim all with cream, shuddering at the cold, and he tugged her forward and buried his face in her, licking and sucking and nibbling until the sweet drippings were all gone and it was just her, all savory and hot, undulating and moaning above him.

He surrendered to it, his whole world narrowing down to the intoxicating flavour of her, the feel of her clit hard under his tongue; her body filled his vision like a fantastical landscape, her gasps and cries a symphony, building to a crescendo, and when she came it was like an earthquake, her low guttural cry the sound of thunder, the apocalypse come after all. He tasted her tremors, bathing her with reassuring strokes of his tongue as the deluge of her ecstasy receded, and he tipped his head to kiss her strong thighs.

She sat back on his chest, panting and glaring at him, and he cocked a smug eyebrow at her, smirking, and her eyes narrowed with determination, and before he knew it she had scrambled down to kneel by his hips, shaking the can once again. God, whatever the bloody hell was in the bloody canister to make that rattling sound, Spike’s cock was apparently already associating it with sex because he was suddenly so hard it was almost painful.

There was a long moment where Buffy just sat, looking at his cock like it was a knot she needed to untie, and then she took a deep breath and leaned forward, and Spike barely had time to realize, _she’s never done this,_ before she had painted a long stripe of whipped cream along his hard length, following it with her hot tongue, and oh god, he’d never had this before either, her mouth was hot and wet and his hands clutched at the concrete as his head arched back, eyes wide with revelation.

She toyed with him, sadistic woman, playfully squirting cream here and there, licking and sucking almost randomly until he was nearly mad; blindly he reached out to her, one hand finding her head, brushing hair tenderly away from her sticky cheek, the other landing on her thigh, urging her legs open until he could stroke her, fingers urgent in her wetness. She gasped, hot breath on his cock, and then shifted closer, opening her legs wide, and he drove two fingers into her, thumbing roughly at her clit as she finally, finally took him all the way into her mouth.

She set the pace, pumping her lips up and down on his cock slowly, and for a while he matched her, driving his fingers as deep as they could go, the chain clanking in rhythm with them, but bloody hell, she was starting to shake again, he could feel her right on the edge, and he grinned and pushed her over, thumb and fingers hard and fast and she gasped and gasped around his cock until she convulsed, instinctively sucking harder as she came, taking him deeper, and then they were both through playing, frantic, desperate, her mouth working him as he fucked her faster and harder with his fingers -- all four now, driving into her knuckle-deep -- and she suddenly laughed around him, giving him a bit of teeth, and god, he came so hard he nearly blacked out, feeling her swallow him down.

He surged up and rolled her over until he was above her, fingers still driving into her, other hand stroking the hair back from her face so he could see every nuance of her expression as he played with her -- the way her eyelashes fluttered when he curved his fingers just like _that_ , the luscious curve of her lower lip as she gasped, her wide green eyes fixed on his. They drew him down, those eyes, until his forehead was pressed to hers; he breathed in her breath, brushing his lips against hers, and when she shuddered with completion he kissed her, drinking down her cries of ecstasy.

“There’s my girl,” he crooned, stroking his wet hand up across her belly and shifting them both around until he was lying on the thin mattress again and she was snuggled up into his side.

“I am not your girl,” Buffy murmured, curling possessively against him. “You’re my prisoner.”

“That I am, love,” he agreed magnanimously, settling her more comfortably against him before drifting off into sleep. She was warm and soft and pliant, and smelled like absolute heaven.

God, he hated her.

***

Buffy awoke suddenly to the realization that she was lying full on top of Spike, her cheek pillowed against his chest and her legs draped on either side of him, which was so unlike any waking-up-situation she’d ever experienced that she’d have thought it was a continuation of the naughty Spike-dream she’d been having, except that the slightly sticky feel of his skin was just too mundanely real a sensation for her subconscious to have conjured up. She could feel him hard against her tummy, and that reminded her just how they’d gotten so sticky, and hadn’t that been a whole book of revelations?

Not that any of it had been technically new information; she’d known about oral sex in theory before Spike had so enthusiastically _gone there_ , she’d just never realized how…. Well, with both her previous partners, all the romantic kissing and fondling had just been appetizers for the main event, whereas Spike had treated her nethers like a full-course meal. They hadn’t even had sex that last time, not sex-sex, but it had still been the most… the most _carnal_ experience of her life.

She wanted a second helping.

It was weird, though, actually waking up with someone. Especially that person being Spike, who she still totally hated, she assured herself, even with all the orgasms and the licking and the laughing and that look in his eyes as he’d done that thing with his hand and…. Okay, she was getting squirmy just thinking about that thing, and the other thing, and the other other thing, and so the real question was, how was one supposed to wake up one’s mortal-enemy-slash-lover when you were in the mood for some mortal-enemy-loving? A kiss seemed kind of not-right for who they were, they didn’t really have the pretense of romance going on between them, but she was also pretty sure just jumping his bones while he was still asleep was rude in some way. Maybe she could just… wriggle a bit? But then again, what if he woke up evil? More evil, she corrected. He was already totally….

Her ruminations came to a screeching halt when she heard the clank of his chains; a moment later his hand sank into her hair and she felt his lips on the crown of her head.

“Morning, sunshine,” he murmured into her hair.

“It’s still night,” she said, feeling lame.

“We’re both up,” he pointed out, and then reinforced the innuendo by pressing his cock into her belly. “Very, very awake,” he purred, and she wasn’t sure which of them did the moving, but his hands were on her elbows and hers planted on his sticky chest, and she was sitting up right on his cock, and god, even as she thought what a colossally bad idea it was, how bad it all had been, she couldn’t help but grind into it a little.

They had never turned off the light, and so Buffy could clearly see the wreckage of the cot, droplets of dried blood from his discarded Tupperware, splatters of cream, the empty Reddi-Whip canister rolled off to the side, and in the middle of it all, Spike, the biggest disaster of them all, looking up at her in smug, sleepy awe and she saw it all so clearly, all the bad, but oh god, she still wanted him; even now her little inevitable grind had turned into long purposeful glides, and he was moving with her, and oh, that look in his eyes, half-satisfaction, half-amazement. She found herself running her hands up his arms until she could clasp his hands, fingers winding together, and she pressed them down next to his shoulders, bending down to brush her lips against his.

“This is so wrong,” she whispered, voice breaking.

“Yeah,” Spike growled back. “That’s what makes it fun.”

She gasped out a laugh, still moving against him. “What are we doing?”

“Right now, you’re driving me round the bloody bend,” he laughed back, brokenly. “You planning on torturing me all night, or fucking me?”

She shivered, but summoned a grin. “I’m thinking torture. Seeing as you’re still my prisoner.”

He groaned dramatically, eyes lit with mirth. “You’re a cruel woman, you are. Bloody well outlawed by the Geneva Conventions.” He shifted beneath her, and oh, she didn’t know how he was doing it, no hands and all, but he was rubbing her in all the right places; she rubbed right back, the intensity making her dizzy.

“What can I say?” she managed. “You have -- oh! -- information. I -- oh god, right there! -- I have a need -- yes, there -- to know.”

“Tell you anything,” he whispered fervently. “Everything. Just, god, Buffy, fuck me already.”

“You don’t deserve to have me -- god! -- to have me _do_ you.”

“Don’t I?” He looked up at her with eyes like coals. “But what do _you_ want?”

“This.” She slid against him faster. “More.”

His hands tightened on hers. “Do you want to fuck me? Say it.”

“I--” She swallowed, leaning forward to whisper in his ear, like it was a secret, like they could be overheard. “I want to fuck you.”

He sighed as if in relief, and as if that was a signal she released one of his hands, reaching down, and he reached with her, and together they fit his cock to her and she tilted her hips to his thrust. He drove deep, eyes fixed on hers the whole time, just inches away now, and their hands found each other again, and he let out a shudder of surrender as she pressed their hands down by his shoulders again, as if being in her power was all he’d ever dreamed of. He pumped into her in long, luxurious strokes that seemed to drive straight through to her soul; she matched him, slick and open, feeling his every contour.

Under the harsh lighting, Buffy was incredibly aware of what was going on, every twitch of Spike’s expressive face written plain, nothing hidden in the shadows; it was so the opposite of what she had thought sex should be -- soft focus, dim romantic lighting, everything couched in sweet nothings -- and yet it was somehow honest in a way she hadn’t expected, neither of them pretending, bare to each other beyond their bodies. It wasn’t romantic, but it was real, and shockingly intimate. Like her field of vision had been opened wide.

And she couldn’t look away from his eyes.

She moved with him, slow and deep like the sea, not wanting to break the silence with words; instead, she fluttered light kisses along his jaw and throat and shoulders, and his fingertips entwined with hers. The gasp that wrung from him was so delicious that she sat up, taking one of his hands up to her mouth and sucking on each finger in turn as she rolled her hips into his thrusts. His freed hand thumbed roughly at her breasts, and then stroked her cheek, and when she turned her head into the caress, catching his thumb in her teeth, he took the hand she’d been loving, still wet from her kisses, and tucked it in to rub at her clit as she rode him, and her orgasm caught her by surprise; she sucked hard on his thumb, whimpering as pleasure jolted through her, and he swore under his breath and surged up, his hands on her hips helping her balance until he was sitting cross-legged, chest to chest with her, urging her up and down, and oh, it was still slow and deep but something had changed, she wound her arms around his neck and gazed into his eyes, and _fuck me, Buffy_ , he whispered, and she did, oh god, just thinking the words _I am fucking Spike_ , almost feeling them on her lips again, made her feel wild and desperate, she tossed her head back and let loose, thighs burning as she rose and fell, harder and faster and oh god oh god his eyes, they shattered her like glass, spiderweb cracks of pure sensation spreading up her belly and all the way out to her fingertips and she screamed, and she wasn’t sure what happened next except when she came back to herself she was curled into his chest, still rocking lazily against him, and he was stroking her hair, and okay, maybe it was a little romantic.

Not that she liked him, or anything.

He gently knuckled her head up for a kiss. “Tired?” He was still pulsing slowly inside her, and she realized he was still urgently hard.

She trailed a hand across his chest. “A little.”

“Too tired?”

“Never,” she whispered shyly.

“That’s my girl.” He ground up purposefully into her, forestalling her token protest at the possessive. “How does this feel?”

“Oh, god,” she gasped, unable to respond anything but honestly. “Good.” Two could play that game; she gave her hips a little swirl. “How about this?”

“Bloody hell. Do it again.”

And she swirled her hips again, and then he thrust into her hard from an entirely different angle, and she tried clenching around him, and they traded blows back and forth until Buffy was as breathless as he, both of them quivering with passion.

Buffy surrendered softly when Spike pressed her back into the thin mattress, sucking on her own fingertips and watching him as he held her thighs wide, pistoning slowly, finding just the stroke that made her gasp the loudest and then ramping up the pace until she was nearly howling. When she came, she laughed in surprise, and then conquered him right back, riding him purposefully until he convulsed with his own orgasm. She collapsed atop him and dozed for a bit, still joined, until he kissed her back to wakefulness and urged her to sit back on his hardening cock; he begged her to touch herself, and under his hungry eyes she stroked her own breasts and strummed on her clit until she was gasping and shaking, and when she shuddered with completion he tugged her down and kissed her tenderly and then rolled her over onto her back, tugging her legs up around his waist, and slid into her in long, deliberate strokes, kissing her throat and chest, until she was nearly weeping from the sweetness of it, and then somehow the sweet turned to fire and they rolled until she was kneeling, and Spike was there, groaning as he cupped her breasts and pumped into her from behind, catching up one of her hands and bringing it with his to where they were joined, both their fingers rubbing her hard clit as he pounded into her, and she came again, hard and sharp, and he grunted a bit later as he spilled inside her, and they both fell forward into a damp, sticky heap, pressing fevered kisses wherever they could reach, and as Buffy drifted off into sleep again, nestled in Spike’s embrace, she wondered hazily what time it was.

The next time Buffy woke it was to the sound of Spike’s chain clanking, and she sleepily opened her eyes and watched him walking naked around the basement. He rummaged in the basket of clean laundry, at the very limits of his chain’s reach, and as she watched he selected a fluffy towel and a washcloth, stretching out his arm to turn on the hot water in the utility sink. He drenched the washcloth, wringing it out with one hand, flicked off the water, and turned to her.

“Do I look that bad?”

“Look bloody amazing,” he muttered, looking embarrassed. “Just starting to fuse together.”

She smiled unwillingly. “Very diplomatic.”

That earned her an eyeroll. “Don’t worry, Slayer. When you look a fright, I’ll be sure to tell you. Don’t do ruddy diplomacy.”

Buffy lay on her back and let him minister to her, long wet strokes of the warm washcloth, followed by a brisk towelling that spoke to long practice. When she was clean and dry, he took the cooled cloth, scrubbed and dried himself off perfunctorily, and then flopped down next to Buffy again with a sigh, propped on his elbow and looking down at her, for all the world like a puppy.

She reached up and tousled his hair a bit more -- she hadn’t expected curls under the gel, they softened his face immeasurably. Which she supposed was why he did the gel in the first place. He turned his head to kiss her palm.

“I should have known,” he murmured. “The way you fight -- I should have known you’d be like this.” He brushed a knuckle against her cheek, her shoulder, her breast.

“Like what?” Buffy whispered, feeling suddenly vulnerable.

He was silent for a while, regarding her with something like disbelief, and she braced herself for something cutting or cruel, but instead he laughed shortly, looking away almost abashed -- one of many expressions she’d never expected to see on Spike’s face -- and then he looked back at her, and she didn’t even know what that expression was, except it was strangely soft and open.

“Like touching the bloody sun,” he said softly.

“Sounds painful,” she replied lightly, shivering at the look in his eyes.

“Yeah.” He shrugged, just as lightly, except that it wasn’t light at all, the air seemed as thick as honey, and then he leaned down to kiss her, or maybe she sat up, they met in the middle, and that was like honey, too, the sweet, lazy slide of lips and tongues, flowing right into luxurious glides of body against body, and she opened to his delicious strokes like a flower, murmuring encouragements to him between low moans of satisfaction, his voice rough in her ear, endearments and imprecations and naughty words that made her quiver, and they continued to flow in and out of sleep and sex and conversation and exhausted snuggles, until Buffy finally opened her eyes and realized the high window was glowing with the light of early day.

It was Friday morning.


	2. The Morning

Spike could tell the moment the regrets and recriminations set in -- the slayer went from lusciously limp under his hands to stiff and agitated in an instant, and he stroked along her body soothingly, intensely relieved that the cot they had destroyed had been made of aluminium or some such instead of wood. He quickly estimated that the nearest wood was the banister, a good two yards away, which he hoped would give him enough time to -- well, not escape, because he was still chained, but at least remind the slayer that she had previously decided not to stake him for any number of good reasons, and wouldn’t she much rather come back to bed?

He himself would much prefer more sex to being staked.

After a moment, though, her muscles relaxed, and she lifted her head, meeting his eyes with an expression between embarrassment and rueful humour.

“It’s morning,” she said softly.

“So it is. We turning into pumpkins now?” He ran a hand around the curve of her arse, because it was there and slightly pumpkinish.

“It’s Friday,” she grumbled, showing the keen grasp of the obvious for which she was known, but then she pressed into his hand and let her legs drift further apart; he obligingly tucked his fingers in to soothe her in other places. Poor twig had to be sore after the thorough rogering he’d given her, he mused smugly, wondering when she’d be up to more. Though he supposed now that the sun was up, the forgiving night fled, he should revise that “when” to “if.” Pity.

She buried her face in his chest then. "Ugh. Tell me the sun's not up."

"The sun's not up." He stroked her hair. God, it was glorious.

"You liar." She snorted a bloody adorable laugh into his skin.

"That I am, love," he agreed.

She turned her face away from his to face the high window. ”I need to go get ready. I'm going to go visit my dad."

"Sounds lovely."

She laughed. "It's really, really not.” She suddenly turned her face to his, kissing him like he was her only escape; he kissed her back until she relaxed again and snuggled into his shoulder. After a bit, she sighed and went on. “I mean, I love my dad, I really do, but I know what's going to happen when I get down there. He's going to be busy with work, even though everybody else in the world takes the day off, and so I'm going to end up sitting around his condo making awkward conversation with his secretary-slash-secret-girlfriend, who isn't even ten years older than me, until he finally comes out of his office and we go off to some restaurant where he ends up on the phone working again, until I go to bed in his guest room and pretend I don't know Brittany's sleeping over. And then we wake up in the morning and do it again, until he puts me on the bus back home.” She nuzzled into Spike’s chest, seeking comfort, and he stroked her hair more. “I don't know why I bother."

"Then don't bother,” Spike coaxed. “Stay here."

"I can't.” She wrapped her arms a little tighter. “You don't know how hard I.... He used to visit. He'd come take me out on my birthday, go to the Ice Capades, get sundaes after at the fancy ice cream shop. Or take me out shopping for shoes, even though he hated shopping. Now, I'm lucky he even answers the phone when I call." She scrubbed her face against his chest, leaving damp spots behind.

Bugger, were those tears? Spike felt the sudden urge to go to LA himself, just to pop the bastard in the nose. It would be worth the headache. He could pop Angel one while he was at it. "Don't go. Stay here. Stay here and..." He gave up any pretense at subtlety and rolled Buffy over, nuzzling into her throat and sliding his hand right between her legs again.

She was apparently in agreement that subtlety was overrated, opening to him like a bloody orchid and kissing his hair as he fondled her, but a bit later she tensed again.  "What if... what if he's happy I don't go? What if he didn't want me to visit in the first place?"

Spike pushed himself up and away so he could meet her troubled gaze. "Then he's a miserable wanker who doesn't deserve your time."

She rolled her eyes. "Like you do."

Spike ran a hand along her, throat to belly to thigh. "Damn right I don't deserve this. But we’re not talking about me. This is about you, love. What do you deserve?” He stroked her again. “What do you want?"

Her expression turned sly. "I want...." She reached out and wrapped a hand around his cock, and bloody hell, he was going to just dust right here, he knew it, but he managed to keep a shred of control, shifting over her until he was poised at her entrance. He wrapped his own fingers over hers and rubbed the tip right against her swollen clit. She gasped.

"This?" he purred, probing again, again, watching her face.

"God." Her fingers tightened and she helped him probe and probe, until she was shuddering against him, until she broke, a rush of wetness and a sharp cry and her eyes squeezed shut.

Spike kissed her and unwound her clutching fingers, pressing her hands down on either side of her shoulders. "What about this?" He slowly thrust into her, the hot slide sending shakes down his legs.

She shifted under him, hooking her legs around his waist. "Yes. Yes, that." She tilted her hips to him hungrily. “Do that.”

“Anything you say,” he said softly, wondering why it rang truer than truth in his head, and he gave her what she wanted. Which was apparently just what he wanted; he fucked her and fucked her, their hours of loving giving him enough control to play, to find out which angles made her scream the loudest, and when she rolled him over and started in on her own experiments, doing her damnedest to send him round the bloody bend, he happily lay back and went around that bend with her, over and over, until he finally could hold out no longer and shouted out his release, her satisfied laugh like a church bell in his ears, ringing out Matins.

Afterwards, still tangled and joined, he kissed her softly, brushing her nose with his.

"Don't go," he whispered.

She glanced off at the window again. "I promised."

"Promise to a man who abandoned you and your mum? Seems he doesn't treasure your word as he should." Spike knew a bit about promises unvalued, promises betrayed; he could feel the edge of it in his voice, and he could tell from the look in her green eyes when they came back to his that she remembered the trampled-yet-steadfast loyalty that had led to their first truce.

"I don't break my promises," she said, eyes resolute. It made him wish they had a promise between them, one they both could keep.

But he shook himself out of that thought. This wasn’t about promises or loyalty at all, it was about getting the slayer to stay. So he reached down between them and gently thumbed at her clit; just enough pressure that she shivered, an involuntary mewl of pleasure coming from her throat. "What about your sacred duty? Isn't that more important than your promise?" He slid down her body, kissing across her belly.

She ran her fingers through his hair as he moved lower. "I am very certain this is neither sacred nor my duty." She opened wide to him, though, sighing as he lapped at her. It was maddening, the taste of her now, all ripe and well-loved, his own flavour mingled in, but even as his eyes rolled back in his head at the pleasure he kept his figurative eye on the prize.

"You're keeping me off the streets," he pointed out, letting his lips brush her as he spoke.

"You're imp--” She broke off, panting, as he grazed her with his teeth. “You can't bite or kill. You're even less dangerous than most humans."

“Is that so?” He pursed his lips over her hard nubbin, sucking, and then flicked it with his tongue until her thighs were shaking and he was fair certain she was right on the edge of coming. He left her on that edge, sliding up to lay beside her, propped on his elbow, his cock brushing her thigh, a reminder of just how impotent he wasn’t, how ready he was for more. He played with her breast absently. "Could get up to some evil doesn't involve killing. Grand theft. Arson. Mail fraud."

She glared at him. "Okay. Well, I can leave you with Giles."

He grinned. "Or you can stay, make sure I don't unleash all that evil on the world." He reached down to stroke her again, keeping her on that edge, not quite sending her over.

"You're just trying to manipulate me into staying here and... staying here today."

"Not manipulation. I'm asking you. Stay."

"What are you going to do if I stay?"

He leaned down and whispered a suggestion in her ear.

"Oh."

"Yeah." And he put his suggestion into action, rolling her gently until she was on her stomach, kneeling between her thighs.

She sighed happily and tilted her hips up, pillowing her cheek on her arms. "God, you're evil."

He thrust inside her. "Stay."

"Okay,” she laughed softly. “I'll stay."

*

God, she was a terrible daughter. She was a terrible daughter, and she didn’t care, because she had needs, and she was a grown woman, and she really didn’t even need an excuse, she was going to stay home and have sex with Spike all day and she didn’t care. She didn’t care that her dad wasn’t going to care and… she just didn’t care.

She didn’t care so much she didn’t even bother to put on clothes when she went up to the kitchen to call her dad to cancel. _He’s probably in bed with Brittany anyhow,_ she rationalized as the phone rang.

Buffy watched as Spike strolled over to the fridge, casually stepping around the patch of sunlight from the window, and opened the door, perusing the contents. She’d decided that at this point the chains were kind of superfluous and released him. He was as naked as she and apparently also didn’t care, and that was A-OK by her, because that butt she had been grabbing all night was really, really nice.

The ringing was replaced by a woozy “Hello?”

"Dad?"

Spike bent down to rummage at the back of one of the shelves and wow. Wow. Yeah, this was way better than the LA Greyhound station.

"Oh, uh, Buffy. I thought your bus was getting in.... Do you need me to come pick you up? This is kind of a bad--"

_Oh, I bet it’s a bad time._ "No, I.... Dad, something's come up.” Spike glanced over his shoulder, lifting his eyebrows, and she turned away before he could show her just how “up” something had come. Then she turned back, because _damn._ “I can't make it down there this weekend."

"Oh." He didn’t even sound disappointed, just confused. Like he was the only one who got to be distant. Not like she cared. Not when she had Spike there in her kitchen, not distant at all, ready to get up close and personal. Really, really ready.

"Sorry,” she said airily. “You know college."

Spike gave her a measuring look, setting a jar of maraschino cherries on the counter and stalking towards her.

Buffy watched him walk as her father regained his equilibrium. “So you’re not coming?”

Spike dropped to his knees before her and hooked her leg over his shoulder.

“I’m not--” The first stroke of his tongue sent jolts of feeling out to her fingertips, and she forgot what she was saying for a second, her brain flailing about until it landed on the last word he said. “--coming.” Spike chuckled into her, and she kicked his back warningly, focusing on her words. “I’m not coming to LA today,” she said precisely.

"Huh. Well, I'll just cancel--"

Buffy clutched at Spike’s head, not certain herself whether she was trying to urge him on or push him away, just feeling like she had to have her hand in his hair. "Oh no,” she managed to say with something like a normal tone of voice. “You and Brittany shouldn't change your plans because of me. I mean, it's really important to take good care of your secretary. Make sure she feels appreciated."

She could almost feel him looking at Brittany, who was almost certainly right there in his bed. "Uh, I will."

Oh god, what was Spike doing? And how the hell had they just spent -- she tried to count, but numbers were apparently not a thing her brain was doing this morning -- some number of hours getting all kinds of busy with each other and he was still doing things that felt like the first time all over again? "Well,” she gasped. “I don't want to keep you from your clients. Maybe we can get together at Christmas, if I'm not too busy."

Her dad said something back to that, probably something annoying, but oh god oh god she couldn’t word any more, she barely managed to thumb the button to disconnect and then she was clinging to the counter and her voice was yelling and her body was shaking and tears were coming from her eyes and Spike was laughing, he was _laughing_ , the bastard, and she pounded on his back with her fists as she came apart.

When she came back to herself, he was still happily nuzzling at her crotch; she tugged on his hair until he looked up at her, wicked eyes peering appreciatively up the length of her body.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

"I was thinking a bit of cold comfort might make you feel a tad bit better.” He pressed a tender kiss to her hipbone, curling his hands around the backs of her thighs. “Glad I did, too. Otherwise, wouldn't have known how hot it made you, talking on the phone."

"It did not!"

Spike’s eyes narrowed. "No? Feel that." He grabbed her hand, quick as a snake, and pressed it between her legs, just where his tongue had been seconds before. “Feel it,” he hissed.

Dear god. “That’s because you were just…”

He stood, pressing his hand over hers. “How many times did I bring you off last night?” he said in a voice like shadow.

She tried to count, but numbers were still off in Jamaica or something.

“A lot of bloody times,” he went on. “You came against my fingers, you came on my tongue, you came with me buried inside you. Fuck, I think you even came once just from me whispering naughty things in your bloody ear.” He took her hand in his, pressed her fingers where she was hottest, set her to stroking. “I am becoming a bloody connoisseur of Buffy orgasms, and I assure you, you have never come so hard, nor so fast, as when you were on the phone with your dear old dad.”

She swallowed, eyes caught in his.

"So here's a theory for you,” he said conversationally, still rubbing her own fingers against her. “You, Slayer, you're a good girl. And not just good. You're the Chosen One. Better than good. You're supposed to be above all that. But secretly, deep down, you want to be bad.” Suddenly he lifted his hand from hers, freeing her, but oh god oh god, she couldn’t stop now, she just watched his eyes and listened as she stroked herself, gasping. “You want to roll in the mud,” he said, eyes on hers, his damp thumb caressing her cheek. The smell of her own arousal was sharp and pungent. “Throw convention aside, give yourself over to your primal instincts. Like you did last night, with me. And now, we've taken your bad, bad self and brought it out to play with the good girl, and it's like... like matter and antimatter. You explode."

She did, shuddering.

"I do not!" she managed to say.

"Don't you? Here, let's play a little game. You make another phone call. Call your watcher, your friends, anyone. Let's set off a bomb."

"Fine. Whatever." She tossed her hair defiantly. “If that’s what you need for me to prove you wrong, let’s do that.”

“Fine,” he bit out, heaving her up to sit on the counter.

“Fine!” Buffy snapped, hooking her ankles behind his back as he thrust deep into her.

And it was fine. It was very fine indeed.

*

She called Giles, because he was literally the least sexy person she knew; she was still traumatized knowing he and her mom had... and then that Olivia person... Well. The point was that "Giles" and "sex" did not belong in the same universe, much less the same room. She was sure Spike's game was going to be a flop, which made her feel a little disappointed, but she reminded herself that once she'd proved Spike wrong, they could finally go down to the basement again. Her plans for the day were suddenly wide open.

This time, there was no surprise attack on her ladyparts. She was proving a point, and she was honor-bound to prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt, so as she dialed Giles’s number, she relaxed back on the couch -- on top of an old ratty afghan, just in case -- while Spike ate up her naked body with his eyes. They had agreed on some ground rules: no touching until the phone connected, no kissing while she was talking, and absolutely no butting into her conversation, no matter how clever the quip. She was totally confident she was going to win this one.

But, you know. Afghan. Just in case.

He picked up the phone with his usual too-formal greeting, on exactly the third ring.

"Giles?" That was it, the checkered flag. She’d expected Spike to go right for her juicy nethers, but instead he leaned in and started kissing the inside of her elbow. It made her shiver.

Giles cleared his throat. "Buffy? Is everything all right? I rather thought we had an appointment this morning. You were going to bring Spike back before dawn...."

Crap. Was that what she’d said? It seemed like a million years ago. "Oh, sorry! Plans changed.” She let her head fall back, as apparently the column of her throat was essential to whatever lame point Spike was trying to make. “I'm not going down to LA after all, mom left me a ton of cleaning to do for the holidays and I figured I'd just get it all done today."

Spike kissed her then, tongue cool against hers, and she eagerly kissed him back, tilting the phone so the earpiece was still near her ear but the mouthpiece was nowhere near her mouth, because they had to be doing some serious smacking, the way he was kissing her, not to mention the little moans when his hands found her breasts. Giles really, really did not need to hear any of that.

"Ah,” Giles said in that annoying British way he had of trying to pile like a bazillion words into one not-even-a-word. “Will you... Is Spike restrained there, then? Do you need me to stop by and--"

Buffy broke away from Spike’s lips. "No!” He grinned and ducked down out of sight, his lips curling around her nipple. His hands had drifted downwards as well, thumbs tracing crazy-making circles on her inner thighs. “No, uh, you don't need to stop by. I've got Spike... He's... I'm good.” Oh god. She had Spike, all right, had him kissing his way down her chest, and she barely managed not to shriek when he finally made it down to her thighs, planting a kiss on each trembling thigh before he bent to the main attraction, cool breath bathing her before his tongue began to taste. Oh god, what had she been saying to Giles? How long had she been holding her breath? “Spike’s good. Got his chains up in the basement." He wasn’t in them, but they were up.

"Has he revealed anything of interest?"

_Besides the fact that, apparently, orgasms can come in a baker’s dozen?_ "He's been fairly... informative." Like right now, when he was informing her ladybits that they were gorgeous and lickable, and murmuring all sorts of educational swear words into her thighs, and whoops, there she went again, because apparently Spike was more about making her come than bakers were about baking. She tilted the phone away from her mouth again, covering the mouthpiece up for good measure.

"Well, do let me know if you need assistance."

Dammit, she was losing. She was losing. Because the more Giles yapped, the more she wanted Spike inside her. "I've got this, Giles. You can just... read something. Or shop. Did you know today's the biggest shopping day of the year?" Her brain was going in circles, like the Wheel of Fortune, except all of the little wedges were “Ways Spike Could Do Buffy” and as the wheel in her head clicked around she vaguely wondered what would happen if she hit the Bankrupt spot, except she was dizzily thinking that there was no possible result, no way Spike could do her that she would not end up a winner, even if she didn’t buy a vowel.

Giles harrumphed. "Yes, I was rather aware. Which is why I had planned to stay in and question Spike."

Dammit. She conceded defeat. Or maybe she was claiming victory. Either way, she reached down and clutched at Spike’s shoulders, urging him back up. "Well, now you don't have to. You can...." She couldn't think of anything else Giles did besides read, and she really didn’t care, because Spike had gotten her subtle hint and had hooked her leg over the back of the couch, eyes hot, his legs tucking under her other leg, and she didn’t see how that was supposed to work but oh, it did work, he was inside her, pumping slowly, and god god god it was glorious. "You can just keep doing what you're doing."

"Well, I shall."

Buffy twisted the mouthpiece back to her mouth, stifling a gasp. "Okay then."

"Buffy, are you all right?"

_That depends on your definition of ‘all right,’_ Buffy though dizzily. "Oh, I'm just... just peachy keen. Gotta go now. Got some dust bunnies need slaying." Not to mention some vampires that needed fucking; she caught at Spike and twisted and wrestled until she had him where she wanted him, leaning back in the center of the couch with her riding him. He was looking at her like she was the apocalypse, all the horsemen rolled into one, and she felt like it, too, like she was bringing about the end of the world as she impaled herself on him over and over and over, and it was a surprise when Giles spoke again and she realized she was still on the phone.

"Right. Well, I suppose we can discuss Spike further once you're free. Perhaps this evening? You can tell me what you've learned."

_Oh, hell no._ "Yeah. I guess so."

Giles said something in response to that, something that was probably important, but Spike chose that exact moment to accelerate, twisting his hips as he ground up into her, sending her eyes rolling back in her head.

"What was that?" she managed to say between thrusts.

"When will you be coming?"

She looked down at Spike, and he grinned up at her. “Yes,” he murmured darkly. “Do answer the man’s question.”

"Oh,” Buffy gasped, and “oh,” and “oh” again, and then she _was_ coming, blindingly; she barely managed to cover the phone’s mouthpiece with her hand and thrust it as far away from her as her arms could reach in the hopes that Giles wouldn’t hear the garbled, muffled cry that was all she could allow herself, or the muffled oath that Spike buried in her breast as he followed her over, and as the wave crested and she started to come down, she realized she still hadn’t answered Giles, and she was still not really able to fathom times, or numbers, or social pleasantries, and so she set the phone to her ear and bluffed. “Um. I'll let you know."

Giles sighed, but in a _bloody-teenagers-and-their-social-lives_ kind of way, not in a way that indicated he had any sort of clue he’d just been a part of Buffy’s world shattering. “Goodbye, Buffy."

"Yeah, see you soon." She pushed the disconnect button with her trembling fingers. Or tried to push it; it took her a few tries.

Wow.

“You win,” she said softly, weirdly not feeling like she’d lost.

Spike looked up at her, his face as dazed as she felt. “Suppose I did,” he laughed faintly. “What did I win?”

“That was definitely….” Words were not adequate; she melted into a kiss, snuggling and wriggling until they were lying side by side on the couch. One thing she could definitely say for Spike -- well, one thing that wasn’t a sex thing -- he did not skimp on the snuggles, seeming perfectly content to stroke her hair and her back and kiss her temple and just wallow in afterglow.

“It was,” he finally sighed into her hair. “It was definitely. You’re a bloody miracle, pet.”

“Am I?” She kissed him lazily.

“So,” he murmured into her lips. “I think we have proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that you, Buffy Summers, have an… interesting phone kink.”

She glared at him. “I’m not kinky.”

“Aren’t you?” Spike glared back, clearly stung. “Not like kink is a brand of evil, you know. Just means you get hot for something a little left of center. Like most people do.”

“Oh.” Buffy flushed. “I knew that. I just, you know. There’s always that stereotype that kinky is bad.”

“Oh, and the slayer can’t be a little bit bad?” He rubbed his feet against hers. “Dip a toe in the mud?”

“Maybe a little,” she mumbled wryly. He’d won, after all.

“So there you go.”

“Of course, it could have been because of the embarrassment,” Buffy said thoughtfully, now that she seemed to have two neurons to rub together again. “I mean, my dad is my dad, and Giles is kind of like a dad, and dads are the last people a girl ever wants to know about her sex life. Not that my dad is the shotgun type. But, um, Giles is the crossbow type.”

“I seem to recall his also being the Molotov cocktail, flaming baseball bat type,” Spike said wryly.

“Really?”

“Did a bloody number on Angelus, remember? Though I suppose you were only there for the end bit, where Angelus was returning the favor.”

“Huh.” Thinking back to then, the flaming factory and Angel all evil and Jenny just dead made Buffy feel all ooky; she buried her face in Spike’s chest, and he stroked her hair as she brought her brain back to the present.

“Anyhow,” she said at last. “Maybe it would be different if it were someone else on the phone. Someone I don’t feel so weird about knowing I have a sex life.” She shoved the knowledge that everyone she knew knew about at least some of her sex life, thanks to Angel’s soulless rampage. She was so not thinking about Angel today, not any more.

“Perhaps so,” Spike agreed.

They snuggled a bit longer.

“Well,” Buffy said at last, tracing circles on Spike’s chest. “Really, there’s only one way to find out.”

“And just what are you proposing, Slayer?”

“Just, you know. We can, um, try it again. With someone else. Someone less dad-like.”

He slanted an unreadable look her way. “Again?”

She rapped her knuckles lightly on his chest. “I ditched my dad for you. Would you rather play Parcheesi?”

He didn’t answer that, just pulled her over into a deep kiss, sinking his hands into her hair

“So, not your mum,” Spike mused when they’d melted into cuddles again, apparently giving the matter serious thought.

“Ew, no.”

“So,” Spike said easily. “Who is it that knows you have a sex life?”

Buffy knew just the person.

*

Spike was lost.

He knew where he was, of course. Buffy’s house -- Buffy herself -- had been something of a lodestone to him since he’d first faced off against her; no matter where he’d gone, even when he and Dru’d been in South America, he’d always been aware, somewhere in the back of his mind, _that’s where the slayer is_ , like a compass needle in his brain that always pointed Due Buffy. Of course, it was because he hated her so; he’d needed to know what direction to send the hatred, Radar Hate, like that Golden Earring song except loads better.

He had hated her with all his heart.

Now he wasn’t sure.

Looking at her, all pink and gold, her face screwed up in thought as she pondered -- of all things -- where and how she wanted to get shagged next, it was like his whole body was made of iron filings, drawn inexorably to her, and he was starting to get a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that it wasn’t hate, that it hadn’t been hate for a long time, that his obsession with Buffy had its roots in something far, far worse, something so terrible he’d chained it in the deepest caverns of his heart, except now she’d smashed those chains, setting the black beast loose to unfurl its noisome wings and wreak devastation all through Spike’s world. It was sick. It was unthinkable. It couldn’t possibly be true.

There was no bloody way Spike was in love.

“The floor, I think,” Buffy said decisively, apparently unaffected by Spike’s black glare. She picked up a few throw pillows from the couch. “If we’re going to really get accurate results we don’t need to be worrying about balancing and stuff.”

“Accurate results,” Spike repeated, piling a shield of sarcasm on the words.

Buffy looked at him through her eyelashes. “I think we owe it to ourselves to be thorough.”

“Thorough.” God, he’d turned into a parrot.

“Willow would expect nothing less.” Buffy tossed the pillows down, arranging them into a nest. “She is a huge advocate of the scientific method.”

“Is she, now?” Spike sat in one of the side chairs. “She going to co-author our paper, then? Send it on to the journals?”

“We’re writing a paper?” Buffy blinked, then laughed. “Oh, yes. I’m sure the Super Fancy American Journal of Kinky Vampire Sex will be totally interested in our findings.”

He chose not to break it to her that a journal with basically that very name (worded more academically) did in fact exist and was highly entertaining. “Shall I draw up a cunning cunnilingus graph?”

Buffy eased down into her nest, watching Spike through heavy-lidded eyes. “Do I want to know what that is?”

Spike sank down to the floor himself, crawling towards her. “Well, the _lingus_ comes from the Latin for tongue.” He reached her ankles and lifted one foot, planting a hot kiss in the arch. “Three guesses what the _cunni_ part means.”

She lifted an eyebrow and grinned in a way that said she knew exactly what it meant. “Toes?” she said innocently.

Spike obediently gave her sweet toes, callused from hours of patrol, their due worship. “Strike one, love.”

“Hmm…” Buffy lolled back on her cushions. “Knees?”

Spike slid up and tenderly kissed the inside of each knee. “Strike two.” He started to kiss up the inside of her thigh, because it was there and fucking glorious.

She reached down and wove a hand into his hair. “Oh, gosh, let me think….” He kissed up and up as she “thought,” veering off at the last minute to kiss her hipbone. “I  know,” she laughed softly. “Belly button!”

Spike laughed as well, surprised at the way it sounded almost happy. “Strike three.” He dipped his tongue into her navel; she quivered at the touch.

“This is what I get for taking French,” she sighed dramatically, tightening her fingers in his hair. “You’ll just have to teach me what it means, Mr. Latin-knowing-guy.”

He kissed the curve of her belly. “Weren’t you going to make a phone call?”

“I was, wasn’t I?” She stroked his cheek. “I mean, this is for science.”

“So it is.” Easier to pretend it was than to confront the truth. Spike eased back until he was kneeling between her ankles again, hands on his knees. “So. How’s it to be, then?” He made his voice deliberately brisk. Because _no bloody way._

Buffy blinked, eyes a little glazed. “Huh?”

He grinned. “How, exactly, do you want it? In the spirit of scientific inquiry.”

“Oh.” She smiled back, shy again. “I, um want it… kind of slow. To, you know, take our time, so we can really make those… thorough observations. I mean, we keep getting kind of….” She trailed off.

“Wild? Passionate?” He licked his lips showily. “Apocalyptic?”

“Yeah. That.” She poked at him with one foot. “Can we do slow?”

“Slow as treacle,” Spike purred and caught her foot, gently massaging the ball. “Just the tongue?”

“To start,” Buffy murmured.

“Mm. And to finish?”

She smiled dreamily. “Slow.”

“Slow.” Spike placed a soft kiss in her arch. “D’you want it slow from behind, love? Down on your knees? Or did you want to ride me, show me who’s boss?” Another kiss. “You liked it sideways, as I recall, the one with your leg up--”

“Like this,” she interrupted, arching in her nest. “Just here. Slow and, um, can we do sweet? Like we’re in love.”

“I can do sweet,” Spike whispered back, ignoring the pointless stab in the vicinity of his heart, because… No. Bloody. Way. “Dial.”

Eyes fixed on his, Buffy lay back and dialed, easing into a pose worthy of Marilyn Monroe.

"Hey, Willow!"

Willow’s voice was just loud enough for Spike to hear. "Oh, hi, Buffy! How was your bus ride?"

Showtime. He lifted Buffy’s foot to his mouth and started sucking on her toes, one by one.

"Oh, I didn't go,” Buffy said breezily, throwing an arm over her forehead while she watched Spike. “I have some... things... and... Anyhow! I think I left my notes back at the dorm, and I wanted to study for that Psychology quiz we have on Monday."

Spike trailed kisses up her instep. He could tell the conversation was already heating Buffy up, making her all tender and sensitive. Was tempting to just worship at her feet the whole time, see if he could bring her off just with that, but she was already opening to him, he could see arousal spreading through her body like the bloody dawn, her skin turning pink, her nipples tightening, her breath quickening, he could scent her glorious fragrance turning to musk, and he needed it all, needed all the senses, needed touch and taste to complement the sight and the sound and the scent, he needed it like nothing he’d ever known, and he wasn’t going to deny himself just for the sake of curiosity.

He was not, in the end, a very good scientist.

"We don't have a quiz on Monday."

_Smart girl. Making Buffy work for her pleasure._ Spike was kissing his way up Buffy’s shin when she reached down to stroke his face again; he caught her hand in his, sucking her fingers into his mouth one by one as he continued to glide inexorably up her body, kissing wherever he could reach.

"Pop quiz,” Buffy said, quivering. “I mean, you know Professor Walsh. She's totally the pop quiz type." Spike licked up her torso to her breasts, admitting to himself that this was the fastest treacle the universe had ever seen, but unable to resist those sweet pink buds.

"Oh, you're right, she is. Maybe I should study too? Want me to bring you your--"

"No!” Buffy clutched Spike’s head to her with her free hand, gasping, apparently also less dedicated to slow, methodical science than she’d pretended. “No, you don't have to bring them.” Spike caught at her nipple with his teeth, tugging gently; she hitched in a loud breath that she managed to turn into a word. “AhhhI've been cleaning here, and it's, um, super dusty. Ah-choo!" That clever coverup earned her a nibble at the other breast.

"Oh, okay then. Um. So why did you call?"

Buffy’s head fell back. "I left my notes there. I was thinking maybe you could, well, read them to me." Spike licked up the column of her throat, already salty with sweat, and then sweetly kissed the curve of Buffy’s cheek, meeting her eyes. “Slowly,” she said, pupils dilated. “So I don’t miss any of the big words.”

Willow’s voice was incongruously chirpy as Spike captured Buffy’s mouth for a languid kiss. "Oh! That way it would be just like studying together, except less dusty!"

Buffy ended the kiss as sweetly as it had begun. "Yep,” she said. “That's just what I was thinking." She nudged at Spike’s ribcage with her knee, shifting beneath him until she was cradling his cock in warmth and heat, pulsing her hips slowly against his.

Oh, god. Bugger slow; Spike knew he was going to dust if he didn’t taste her right that moment, and so he did, sliding down and taking a long lick of her quim, and _bugger_ she tasted even better than before, how was that possible? How could she possibly taste better than perfect? But she did. He licked and licked, devouring her quivers and secret sighs like they were caramel corn, her hand in his hair urging him on.

Willow continued on, oblivious. "Okay, gimme a second. Um, where should we start?"

Buffy was already hitching beneath his tongue, her voice thready. "Maybe, um, with that stuff from last week? That should take a whi--  Ah-- Ahh--"

Spike pursed his lips and sucked -- gently, he knew she was sore -- and she came apart, burying her cry of release in one of the pillows. God. _God._ Spike buried his own face in her thigh, resisting the urge to weep.

Willow remained silent, obviously waiting for the sneeze.

"-Choo!" Buffy hastily squeaked. "Sorry, dust. So, um, notes?" She looked at Spike as he slid back up her body, biting her lip and then nodding.

Slowly, slowly, he sheathed himself in her; she sighed, reaching up to wrap her free arm about his head, playing gently with his hair.

"Oh. Oh, of course," Willow said over the phone. There was a rustling of papers from across the wires, and a rustling of fabric as Spike began to pump into Buffy, slow and sweet, his forehead pressed to hers, gazing into her wide, naked eyes, terrified at what she must be seeing in his but unable to look away. "I'm using my notes, because yours are.... Well, mine are color coded, so they're easier to read. Here goes. 'Sigmund Freud...'"

Spike tuned out Willow -- wasn’t for his benefit, the phone call -- and began his own litany, in time with his glacial thrusts.

_No bloody way._

_No bloody way._

_No bloody way._

_Bugger._

_No bloody way._

But as he kissed her and made sweet love to her and worshipped her with all that was in him,  he could hear her bloody ridiculous valley girl voice smugly telling him the truth.

_Way._

God, she was infuriating, even in his head. But she was also right.

He was bloody well doomed.


	3. Until Sunset

Buffy was amazed at how dedicated Spike was to science.

She’d almost wanted to cry when she’d finally disconnected from Willow, something about the way Spike had looked at her the whole time, like she was terrifying and fascinating and adored, like an Egyptian goddess, but when they’d both come down from the exquisite, ineffable release at the end, he’d lightly nipped at her shoulder.

“What next?”

And since it was going on lunch -- Willow’s notes really were very detailed -- Buffy decided to order a pizza.

“Surprise me,” she’d said when Spike asked for _his_ orders.

And he had, taking her from behind up against the marble-topped kitchen island, her breasts brushing the cool stone as he drove into her -- but not constantly, no. Only when she said a number.

When she said one, he drove into her once, hard and fast, and then stopped, his cock poised at her entrance.

When she said two, twice.

When she said nine…. Well. Suffice it to say that by the time she’d given her phone number, her address, and finally her credit card number to pay for the pizza, Buffy was barely able to speak; she hung up the phone, turned to regard Spike angrily over her shoulder, and bit out the first number that had come to mind.

“Three hundred twenty-seven, dammit.”

He’d started counting and she’d chanted the count along with him, but they’d barely made it into the double digits before the numbers gave way to grunted curses, and Buffy was screaming out her release before they passed a hundred, pressing her overheated face to the cool marble.

“An interesting experiment,” she’d managed to joke afterwards; Spike had snorted out a laugh.

The pizza (anchovies on half, hot wings on the side) was just what Buffy needed after what she had to admit was a hell of a workout, even for her, although Spike had pouted when she’d thrown on a skirt and top to meet the delivery guy. At least until the pizza guy had gone and she’d let him go spelunking under the skirt while she ate, which had been a really, really surreal meal.

She was never going to look at a slice of pepperoni the same way again.

Five phone calls to unsuspecting businesses later, the pizza was a bit cold. They’d let some of the rules slide. Actually, they’d let all of the rules slide, and instead established just one: don’t get caught. The kissed when they wanted -- just trying not to slurp too much -- and Spike said what he wanted -- just quiet enough not to be heard over the phone -- and they pretty much started whenever they both felt up to it, with Buffy picking up the phone whenever she took the notion.  They’d pretty much determined that it didn’t matter who was on the other end of the phone, the bored operator at information or the telemarketer who’d tried to sell Buffy a time-share condominium in Malta. (She’d almost bought it, heady and slightly insane with orgasmic bliss, but thankfully her wallet had been a good ten feet away from the patch of carpet they’d been merrily defiling. She’d have had a lot of trouble explaining that charge to her mom later! As it was, they were definitely going to need to have the carpet shampooed, and the couch upholstery cleaned, despite the afghan.)

Buffy had to admit it: she really got off on being on the phone while having sex. She had a phone fetish. Phone-o-philia. She had made it all through all the layers of denial, and now she was just going to embrace it.

She might, she feared, also have a bit of Spike-o-philia -- the intervals between sex and showers and snacks having been filled with snuggles and confessions and stories -- but she was pretty sure she wasn’t able to face that yet; for the moment, she was just going to accept that he was a willing, eager, and inventive partner in her phone-o-philia adventures, and worry about everything else later.

After they’d mostly polished off the cold pizza and hot wings, Spike’d had the notion to slather Buffy’s crotch with the rest of the buffalo sauce -- it had tingled a bit, and then his cool tongue had soothed it, which had combined in such a fantastic way that Buffy had considered expanding their scientific inquiry into food science, but when the sauce was gone Spike had muttered something about Buffy tasting better anyhow and had settled in for a feast, eventually sinking to the kitchen floor with Buffy kneeling over him, facing his feet so she could plant her hands on his chest for support, and she’d decided it was time for another phone call.

Xander’s number was the only one she could remember. She dialed it with shaking fingers, dizzily staring at Spike’s cock, which was throbbing and erect, and right there. She’d played with it earlier, with the whipped cream and all, but she hadn’t really looked at it, the tracery of veins, the silk-thin skin, and before she could think better of it she leaned on forward and took the tip in her mouth, sucking gently in rhythm with the ringing phone. Spike laughed into her, muttering something profane and did something himself, something that matched the pace of her sucking, making her feel like they were connected all in a circle, a Moebius strip of sex.

"Hello, Xander's Lair of Manlitude."

"Mmmm," Buffy managed to get out, not wanting to break the circle.

"Um, hello?"

She reluctantly released Spike’s cock from her lips, though she kept a firm grip on it, sliding her hand up and down, fascinated by the way his foreskin bunched and slid. "Oh, uh, sorry, Xander. I was just, um, eating pizza." This was not, technically, a lie, as she had been just eating it within the past hour.

"A fine pastime," Xander said affably, and oh god she was coming already, barely thirty seconds into the call. She took Spike in her mouth again to muffle what promised to be a mighty yell of completion, channeling her ecstasy into sucking hard. Probably too hard, but Spike didn’t seem to mind, from the appreciation he was showing her crotch. Definite advantage to a vampire lover.

"Mmmm!”

Xander seemed unperturbed, which she supposed was unsurprising, as if any human being could get orgasmic over pizza, it would be Xander. "So, what can I do for you?" he asked.

"Mmmm--” Buffy sat up again, vaguely noting that words were probably required here. “Oh. Um. Well, this is just... really good pizza." She dove in again.

"Is it, now?"

"Mmmmm-hmm." Even without whipped cream, this was not a lie; she didn’t understand why the musky, coppery taste of Spike -- overlaid with just a hint of the soap they’d scrubbed off with at some point -- tasted so damn good, but she really wanted to keep going. Somehow the physical taste of him was overlaid with shades of power and conquest. Was power a flavor?

"Well, that's good to know,” Xander said. “Pizza Hut?"

"Mmmmmmama Fratelli's." God, the way Spike responded to her mouth was like a drug. Or like she expected drugs would be, if she ever tried drugs, which she hadn’t, and all of that was just her brain wandering off on a tangent while her lips and her mouth started to pleasure Spike in earnest, remembering the way he’d felt when he’d come in her mouth before, wanting it desperately, wanting to make him damn well scream.

"Ah, yes. They do have the best sauce."

"Mmmmm."

"So, um. Was there anything else you...?" Xander seemed a little confused now, which Buffy supposed was understandable; she herself had only a vague recollection of what they’d been saying, and she couldn’t tell Xander, “I just called you so Spike could get me off harder, thanks!”

She reluctantly sat back up, grinding her crotch into Spike’s mouth. "Um, no. I, um, just wanted you to know. How good this pizza is."

"Uh-huh."

"It's just really, really good." She arched back, eyes closed, every part of her focused on what Spike’s tongue was doing. Thank god he didn’t need to breathe.

"Well, maybe you can save me a slice."

Buffy looked at Spike’s cock, still bobbing there like an invitation. "I don't think you want this pizza." Oh, what the hell; she leaned forward and took it in her mouth again. It was only fair. Also, she really, really wanted to.

"What, did you get pineapple?"

That didn’t even deserve a real answer. "Mmmmm."

"We've discussed this, Buffy. Pineapple on pizza is an abomination."

"MmmMMMmmm." Oh god oh god….

"I mean, I try to be a pretty open-minded guy, but if you've gone over to the dark side--"

Buffy nearly choked. "No! Um, no, I didn't get pineapple on my pizza." There, that was settled; she licked along the top of Spike’s cock and started sucking again.

"Okay, good."

"Mmmm."

"So. Was there... anything else?"

"Oh. Oh, no,” Buffy said breathlessly, trailing little kisses up the side of Spike’s cock while she caught up on oxygen. Which she herself did need. “Just... pizza good."

"Yes. Yes, pizza good."

"Mmmmmhmm."

"Glad we agree."

"I-- oh god-- I gotta go." That was it. No more words.

"Uh, okay. Bye?"

Buffy didn’t even wait to hang up the phone before Spike’s cock was in her mouth yet again. "Mmmm," she managed as a farewell before decidedly clicking the disconnect button, because she was by god going to make Spike come, she wanted to taste him in her mouth again, and so she sucked and sucked, toyed and played, vaguely aware that her face and her hands were wet with spit, and oh god oh god she was coming again, her legs spasmed as she fractured, the aftershocks heading straight to her lips and she sucked and pumped and sucked until he yelled, pulsing under her lips, the taste of him salty and almost-sweet at the back of her throat, and as she sleepily licked away the last bits of it, she wondered if Spike had been eating pineapple, because she’d read in Cosmo that it was a way to make it taste sweet, but she supposed it might be different for vampires, and in any case she supposed it didn’t matter because Spike tasted like Spike and she probably tasted like Buffy and Spike wasn’t complaining and neither was she.

She eventually got enough muscle coordination together to turn around so she could snuggle into Spike’s shoulder again. He kissed her.

“Is that what I taste like?” It wasn’t bad, just odd. She was actually starting to get used to it, to Spike tasting like her.

“Yeah,” Spike rumbled. “That all mixed in with power and glory.”

“Oh.” She curled into his chest, sleepy. “You taste like that too.”

“Mmm,” he mumbled into her hair.

“Also like pineapple.” She propped herself up in her arm, looking seriously into his eyes. “Do you eat pineapple?”

“Not on pizza,” Spike grinned. “I’m not a monster.”

“That’s all right, then.”

*

“Sun’s going to set soon,” Spike said conversationally, munching on the last slice of anchovy pizza.

Buffy glanced at the light slanting in the kitchen window, picking a slice of pepperoni off her own pizza and staring at it. “I guess so.”

They were cuddled up in the patch of shadow they’d chosen for their restorative snack (well, restorative for Buffy; Spike didn’t technically need it, but he fucking loved anchovies) after yet another shower. Loved to shower, his girl, loved getting all clean and then loved getting dirty again, and he loved the clean and the dirty and he was flat out buggered.

“Expect the watcher will be calling again?” Spike pressed.

“I was trying not to think that far ahead,” Buffy admitted, sighing. “But yeah, he probably will.”

They snuggled in silence for a while.

“What are we going to do, love?” Spike finally said, kissing the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her shampoo.

“I don’t know.” Buffy wrapped her arms a little tighter. “I mean, we don’t even know what’s going on with you, with the pain and the…. Giles can help with that, and Willow. We can figure out what the commandos did. So, um, I guess we should go back to Giles’s place. You can tell us what you know.”

“And then?”

“Well, I want to figure out what these guys are doing here. They’re messing around in my town, and I don’t like it. I need to--”

“Not talking about the bloody commandos,” Spike interrupted.

Buffy sighed again. “I know you’re not.” 

They fell silent again, stroking each other soothingly.

“Look,” Spike said at last. “I know this is wrong, for both of us. You can’t be snogging a creature of the night, and no self-respecting creature of the night should be lo-- lusting after the slayer. I know this is just an… an interlude. It’s got to end.”

“It has to end,” Buffy agreed, sounding miserable. “We can’t be… We just can’t.”

“Right. We’re not fools, not either of us.” Though that was a debatable point right there, because he was already thinking how he could make it be, what he could possibly do to make it not end, to keep this glory even an hour longer. That’s the kind of fool for love he was.

Buffy nodded, scrubbing her cheeks against his shoulder.

“So when the sun sets, we’ll go see the watcher.” Spike made his voice bracing.

“Yeah.”

“And it will be like none of this ever happened.”

Buffy looked at him then. “But it did.”

“It did,” he agreed, and he kissed her, and she kissed him back, and they wrapped themselves around each other in their little pool of shadow.

“We have until sunset,” Buffy said softly. “Right?”

“Until sunset.”

They kissed again, lazily, like they had all the time in the world, and Spike sank into the kiss like it was a quagmire, thinking that he’d not mind if they kept on kissing like that until sunset, or beyond, until the sun itself died at the world’s end.

It did end, though, before the sun did, Buffy burying her face in his shoulder, and Spike wrapped his arms around her and stroked her hair and cursed the universe’s bloody sense of irony.

Buffy pushed away after a bit, face determined. “Spike, I--”

The phone rang then, and Buffy looked at it like she’d never seen a telephone before, like it was some strange alien device dropped into her world from on high.

“One for the road?” Spike said, forcing a grin. Whatever she’d been about to say, it can’t have been good.

She smiled back, gently. “One for the road.”

Spike vowed to make it one to remember.

*

Buffy let Spike lead her into the dining room, the only room they hadn’t yet made use of in their… interlude, and managed a grin when he lifted her up to sit on the table, like this was all still just a game, like she wasn’t already torn apart.

Not that she knew why she was torn apart, but somehow she was.

Still, the phone was ringing, and Spike was smiling -- a different smile than she’d ever seen before, soft and sad somehow -- and she wanted to just not think of sunset right now, she wanted more interlude, and so she lay back on the table, hand tangling in Spike’s hair as he knelt, and she answered the phone.

“Hello?” Spike’s tongue was on her before the word was out of her mouth, lapping tenderly, and she bit her lip, hoping whoever was on the other end of the line was up for a long, long conversation. Past sunset, even. That would be all right, wouldn’t it? Going just a bit over?

"Buffy?"

It took her a moment to register just whose voice it was, because they’d never really been much for the phone, and she’d never expected him to call her, not ever, not after she’d given away his emergency blood, and also Spike was doing something indescribable with his tongue, almost artistic, and when the caller’s identity finally sliced through her brain, she half sat up just from the shock.

"Angel?"

Spike muttered something unintelligible into her crotch and doubled down, god, she didn’t know what he was doing, just that it was more, more of everything, and what the hell, if she could handle everything else they had done today, she could handle this. It wasn’t like she and Angel were anything to each other any more.

He was just another voice on the phone.

She lay back on the table, consciously relaxing, and licked her dry lips. "Wh-- Why are you calling me?"

"I-- Buffy, something's happened to me. Something wonderful."

Something about the tone of his voice filled her with rage, and she suddenly remembered just how all of this had started, the sex and the game and that look in Spike’s eyes that made her want to cry. "Really,” she said sharply. “Was this before or after yesterday?" She reached down her hand, grasping, and Spike caught it in his own, hand snaked under her thigh. She wove her fingers through his like she was hanging on for dear life, and he muttered something into her, she couldn’t understand it but it sounded encouraging.

"Um, it was today?" Angel seemed genuinely taken aback.

"So, _after_ you came up here. Stalked me. Went behind my back." She moved her fingers into Spike’s hair, urging him on, the feel of his tongue somehow giving her focus, setting her free to say what she was really thinking.

"Oh. Um. You weren't supposed to--"

"I wasn't supposed to know?"

"Well--"

"Because you know better than me about these things?" She could feel her breath starting to catch but she didn’t bother turning the phone away from her mouth, not this time. Let Angel hear.

"Uh, yeah, I--"

"Nice to know you think so highly of me."

"Buffy, I need to tell you--"

"Not to mention my gifts." Spike muttered something into her that sounded like _too right_ ; she thumped at his back with her heels, reminding him of the rules, even though they’d broken all the rules. This was still her conversation, not Spike’s.

"I don't know what you're--"

"The Gem of Amara, Angel. I sent it to you. You smashed it."

There was a long pause, the only sounds the faint hiss of static and her own breath loud in Buffy’s ears and the faint wet sound of Spike’s tongue. Maybe it was her imagination, but it felt somehow approving?

"How do you know that?" Angel finally said, voice hard.

"Little bird told me," she replied, just as hard.

"Spike!” Angel spit out. “Is he back in town?"

"None of your business."

"Buffy, he's dangerous."

Buffy lifted her head just enough to meet Spike’s eyes across the quivering terrain of her body. "I can handle Spike." He lifted his eyebrows, but didn’t stop what he was doing, which was-- god. God, god, god, what was he doing? Whatever it was, he needed to never, ever stop. Not at sunset, not at sunrise, not even when the sun exploded.

"Buffy--"

"I'm the Chosen One, not you."

"Buffy, I--"

"I don't need your help."

He sighed. "Look, Doyle had a vision--"

Buffy laughed at that. She knew visions. "Of Hus? Angel, I handle problems like Hus on a daily basis."

"He said you were in danger."

"I'm always in danger!" Oh god, she was close now; she caught at Spike’s hand again, clinging like a lifeline, their clasped hands pressed to the wood behind her thigh.

"But--"

"No buts!” she gasped, feeling it rise in her, the rage and the passion and the frustration and the weirdly bubbling joy of the moment, the joy of finally saying what needed to be said, all curling and twisting into spiraling ecstasy. “You're the one who decided to leave,” she said clearly. “You don't get to keep poking your nose back into my life, like I can't make my own decisions. I'm the slayer. I am smart, and I am strong, and I am--" Her release crashed over her like a volcano erupting, and she shouted out her ecstasy in words. "I am fucking glorious!"

Spike pressed his forehead to her thigh, laughing incredulously.

Angel was silent, and as the silence stretched on, Buffy looked up at the ceiling, awash in sudden clarity.

"Angel, why didn't you ever go down on me?"

"Buffy, what?" Angel sounded scandalized.

"Just answer the question. Why didn't you ever do anything like that? Use your mouth, or your hands to--?" She broke off, suddenly wanting to cry.

His voice dripped disapproval. "We couldn't take the risk--"

" _You_ couldn't take the risk," she said. "You're the one with the happiness issue. But there's all sorts of... all sorts of things that you could have done for me. That we could have done."

Spike rose to his feet then, looking down at her with a dark, unreadable expression. _Yes,_ she thought desperately. _Yes, now. I need you now._ But instead of thrusting into her, carrying on the game, he scooped her up and sank into one of the dining room chairs, cradling her in his lap, and okay, that was better, that was how she needed him now. She curled into him, the phone tight to her ear.

"It was too dangerous," Angel said patronizingly.

"There's that word again." Spike’s dangerous hand stroked her hair soothingly.

"One moment of perfect happiness--"

As if she didn’t get that by now. "For you, Angel. For you. Not me. What about me?"

Angel was silent for a long moment. "But what if I couldn't... hold back?"

Buffy went cold. "What exactly does that mean, Angel?"

"You know."

"No,” she said sharply, because she’d never thought of it that way, even the time the First had been sending them those dreams, never thought he’d actually-- “No, I don't know. Are you actually saying if we decided ahead of time, hey, no happies for Angel, you'd... not be able to stop?"

"We,” Angel said. “We wouldn't be able to stop."

Oh god. "We."

"I mean, we both know what we wanted."

"What I wanted...." Buffy closed her eyes. "What I wanted was for you to stay." Spike was rocking her now, murmuring nonsense into her hair, and it suddenly occurred to her that this was what Spike was good at, soothing the hurts Angel had caused, and what did that say, that Angel left so much pain behind? Did he break everything he touched?

"We've been through this,” Angel said, exasperated. “I had to leave."

"You had to leave because we couldn't have sex.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “Because you couldn't fuck me."

"Buffy, why are you talking like this?"

Buffy laughed, feeling suddenly powerful again. "Don't like my language?"

"It's not like you."

She sat up straight, vaguely aware that Spike was watching her with something like awe on his face. "Not like me,” she repeated. “I can die in the line of duty, but I'm not allowed to say _fuck_?"

"Buffy--"

"You certainly thought it was okay for me to do it. But I can't say it?"

"That was... that was making love."

That’s what she’d thought, too. Except it hadn’t been, not really. She’d been in love with who she thought he was and he’d… he’d been in love with who he thought she should be. "It's the same thing."

"No, it's.... What we had was pure, and sacred."

That wasn’t even worth arguing. "And, what, now I'm supposed to lock myself up in a cloister? Even though you left?"

"Buffy, I really have to tell you what happ--"

Buffy stood then, because this was something she had to do alone. "No. Whoever you think I am, this pure sacred little girl who can't be trusted to protect herself? That's not me. I am a grown woman, and... and a powerful warrior, and I not only _say_ fuck, I _do_ fuck, I fuck as much as I damn well want to, and I deserve orgasms, and oral sex, and someone who's not going to make all my decisions for me, and I don't need you!"

And she hung up the phone.

She stood there in her dining room, chest heaving, panting with rage and catharsis, and she turned and looked at Spike, who still sat in his chair watching her, a thousand expressions on his face at once, but chief among them wicked glee, and admiration, and desire, along with something else she knew she should recognize but her brain wasn’t quite latching on to it.

It didn’t matter. She could figure it all out later.

She leaned up against the dining room table, looking regally down her nose, and tossed the phone behind her, hearing it thud into the carpet.

“Spike,” she said firmly. “The sun’s not down yet.”

His face split in a grin. “That it is not.”

“You’re still mine until sunset. Right?”

“I’m yours,” he agreed fervently.

“So. When last we left off, you were about to _make love to_ me on this table.”

“That was the plan, yes.” He stood and started to prowl slowly towards her.

“Well, we can start with that, then.”

“And after that?”

She smiled then, feeling unburdened and free. “Well, we’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

He was before her then, filling her vision, eyes wreathed in uncertainty even as he reached for her. “You sure, pet?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” she said simply, and then he was lifting her and filling her all in one motion, and her back was on the wood, and she hooked her ankles around his back  and closed her eyes because dear god it was the best yet, even without the phone, just him and her and nothing left between them, their baggage left by the wayside, nothing left to them but their selves, and Buffy felt herself opening and releasing and giving it all, all of her self flowing up into Spike as he pulsed within her, eyes fathomless.

“You’re brilliant,” he said, voice rough.

“I know,” she laughed. “Do you know what else I know?”

He gave a swirl of his hips that made her gasp. “What, love?”

“The sun always rises again. It sets, but it rises.” She reached up and curved her hands around his face, stroking his cheekbones. “So, you know. It never really sets for good.”

“Is that so?” His face had gone back to unreadable.

She nodded, trying to look very serious and academic despite the tingles running through her whole body. “There’s always another sunset.”

“Well then,” he said softly. “You’ll just have to let me know which sunset, then.”

“I will.” She looked into his eyes. “I promise.”

And he leaned down and kissed her, tender and sweet, and then he leaned down further and whispered a suggestion in her ear.

“Yes,” she said. “Let’s do that next.”

When the phone rang again, they let it ring.

 

THE END

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
